Ask You Why
by CatatonicVanity
Summary: It's a practiced dance; a safe sort of routine. Because I know about those cuts you try to cover up and you know that I know, but routine says I won't ask. I never do.


Title: Ask You Why

Warnings! Mentions of self harm and semi-explicit sexual situations

Author's Note: I haven't posted in a long while, eh? Well, this is a depressing, odd little piece. It can be read in relation to Exit, Stage Left, but it can also be read alone. Read, review, tell me what you think.

* * *

The light shining from the clock on the nightstand hurts my eyes slightly, but as I lean over you and watch the steady rise and fall of your chest I don't care. I know it's slightly creepy, but that doesn't bother me. I'm staring at the way your shirt falls off your shoulders and reveals your pale collarbones, but instead of feeling aroused like I usually do, I'm agitated.

You sleep in a long sleeve shirt, always have, even though a sheet of sweat beads on your forehead. I know it's too hot for this and in time, you'll thrash and kick the blankets off, but you won't lose that long sleeved shirt.

I know why. I know about the array of scars and cuts under there, marring your perfectly pale flesh. They're all perfect in their own way, because you're a perfectionist, all in rows of threes.

You sigh breathily, signaling that you can feel my eyes. You know I'm watching you and I curse my own stupidity. You hate being watched, especially when you sleep, because you can feel the gaze of those disgusting monsters that had you before you were mine.

From here, it's a practiced dance. Yes, I know what will happen and so do you. We've done this so many times.

Those venomous green eyes will flutter and you'll pull in a sudden gasp, twisting slightly. Your eyes will open in a panic, revealing a terrible swirl of fear and pain before you'll sigh and sink back into the sheets, relaxing when you know it's just me.

And, like clockwork, I'll move over you and box you into the bed a little, murmuring my apologies while simultaneously allowing amazement to soak through me because I am the only one that can elicit a reaction like that from you. You won't melt like that for just anyone, and the trust you display is so beautiful that it halts my breath in my lungs for a second.

And then I'll lean over slightly, and by now I know that I cock my head to the side silently, waiting for you to arch up towards me in silent consent. Once you do, I'll crush my lips against yours in a searing kiss that you'll return so eagerly. Then it's a mess of limbs and clothes and in a few moments full of breathy moans and soft pleas, I'll be pushing into you, holding your hips and groaning against the skin of your throat.

You'll wrap your legs around me and hold tight, panting to me that you need me to do something, anything, just _move_.

After a few moments, I know you'll bring your arms up around me and ream helplessly, scrabbling at my skin while making blissful noises. The fabric of that shirt rubs against my flesh and I seethe for a moment, wanting to rip it away but knowing that I'll never take that barrier from you, never tear your shields down. But I can't resist the urge to grab your arms, throwing them to the bed and dragging the tips of my fingers down the inside of your forearms, scratching at the cuts I know are there.

And I know you'll arch and thrash, eyes clouding over with release. Is that why? Do you like the pain? I could give you that, if it's what you need. I know I stare at you with intensity burning behind my eyes, pleading and demanding that you answer my question. You know it too, just as you know I know what you do when you're locked in the bathroom. But you won't answer, and I'm beginning to wonder if you ever will.

As I always do, I'll fuck you through your orgasm, shame and pain overwhelming me because I shouldn't have inflicted that kind of pain on you (even if you enjoyed it) and because I'm too weak to ask. I _need_ to know why you do this to yourself, why you would bring a blade down on your own flesh, but I'm afraid of the answer.

Yes, this is a practiced routine. We do it all too often, don't we?

And, as per usual, when you've passed out next to me and I'm holding you close (I push your sleeves up slightly when you sleep; just enough to caress the cuts and scars) I'll curse my own weakness before swearing to myself that it won't happen again. I'll be stronger next time.

I'll finally work up the courage to ask you why.


End file.
